“It’s going to be all right,” Parker tells her. “I promise.”
“You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“I never do, Daisy. Now let’s go celebrate. All right?”
A long pause.
“All right.”
When they emerge from the shadows hand in hand, Johneen appears to be her regal, self-important self again. They slip into conversation with the others, but Johneen keeps her distance from Virginia, and Virginia keeps a wary eye on Johneen.
Maybe she’s the one I should tell, Bella thinks, but quickly dismisses that idea. She’s not supposed to know anything might be amiss.
She quickly makes her way back to the house and slips into the small study off the parlor. When Leona lived here, she used the room to do psychic readings for her clients. It was off-limits to visitors; its French doors were locked and its window blinds drawn.
Bella transformed the space into a sunny, public nook where guests can use a desktop computer and print boarding passes. There’s even a landline phone, since certain carriers’ cell service can be spotty around Lily Dale.
The walls are painted a buttery shade, complimented by blue and white window-seat cushions. During the day, with the blinds raised, the room is bright and cheerful.
But at night . . .
As she turns on the desk lamp and closes the door behind her, she wonders uneasily if someone is out there, watching her through the unobstructed glass.
Oh, come on. Why would anyone do that? You’re not the one with a stalker. Johneen is.
Or is she?
It certainly sounded that way . . . didn’t it?
Clearly, the couple was concerned about a potential wedding crasher. Yet as she replays the conversation in her head, Bella realizes that it could very well be something—someone—utterly innocuous. The unwelcome guest might just be one of those pesky relatives who lurks in every family tree if you shake hard enough. Maybe Johneen has an uncle prone to political pontification or a wayward brother who tends to overindulge. Why had Bella assumed it was a stalker of some sort?
For one thing, the conversation wasn’t just laced with ordinary concern. It was more dramatic than that.
But then, she’s Johneen, Bella reminds herself. To her, every potential hindrance is fraught with disaster.
What about the note? And Parker and Virginia’s conversation?
And, as much as Bella hates to include it as potential evidence—what about Odelia’s foreboding vision?
In her mind, it all adds up to the very real possibility that someone sinister is lurking.
She jerks down the blinds to cover the window just in case and dials Luther’s cell phone.
Again, it bounces directly to voice mail. This time, she leaves a message. “Luther, it’s Bella. Give me a call, please, if you don’t get back too late. If you do . . . I guess I’ll just see you tomorrow when you drop off the chuppah. It’s nothing urgent,” she adds. “No big deal.”
Are you trying to reassure Luther or yourself?
Hanging up, she looks at the computer. She shouldn’t, but she can’t help herself. She opens a search engine and types “Johneen Maynard.”
As the results pop up, the back door opens and someone urgently calls her name.
Bella closes out the screen and hurries to the kitchen, where she finds Tanya.
A small, mousy woman, she’s wearing no makeup and has on an unflatteringly blousy teal dress with sensible, brown shoes she probably wears to work at the dental office.
Seeing her distressed expression, Bella braces herself. “What’s wrong?”
“Are you going to be serving dinner soon?”
“Dinner?”
“Yes. It’s so late. I really need to eat.”
“Sorry, it’s ready right now.” As Bella opens the oven to remove the foil-wrapped entrées, Tanya goes on to tell her that she’s not used to having cocktails, especially on an empty stomach, and that she always eats dinner at five o’clock, and that it’s long past her bedtime.
Bella apologizes, relieved that the purported emergency involved nothing more dangerous than plummeting blood sugar.
This is ridiculous. She’s running around playing amateur detective for no real reason while her guests starve.
Tomorrow, Luther will assure her there’s nothing to worry about. He’ll say she’s just jittery because of what happened to Leona Gatto. He’ll remind her, in his sensible Luther way, that violent crime can’t possibly strike twice in a bucolic place like Lily Dale.
Bella carries the hot food out into the night, where laughter and the warm glow of twinkling lights are waiting.
So is Johneen, eyes blazing.
“Isabella, is this your idea of a joke?”
“What?” Waylaid at the foot of the back steps, clutching a heavy tray of chicken cordon bleu in oven mitts, Bella looks around, wondering what can possibly be amiss.
Everything appears in order, and the guests, though perhaps ravenous, seem content.
“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
Johneen must be talking about the belated dinner. Bella bites her tongue to keep from pointing out that the meal would have been served on time if the bride had been here when she was supposed to be.
“You need to change it this instant!” Johneen rails on.
“Change what?”
“The song. The song, Isabella.”
Caught off guard, she listens momentarily to the music wafting from the speakers.
“Poor little rich girl,” Judy Garland is singing, “you’re a bewitched girl, better take care . . .”
“I have no idea what this is, Johneen, but I didn’t put it on the playlist. I only put the songs you wanted.”
“Then how did it get there?”
That’s a good question.
“Cocktails and laughter, but what comes after . . .”
At a loss for words, she can only listen to the ominous lyrics, heart pounding as she remembers what Odelia said about Spirit’s electronic manipulation.
Chapter Seven
On Saturday, Bella awakens just past four AM from a strange nightmare.
In the beginning, she was setting the table with Odelia, and they were arguing about whether the white place settings were identical. Then it shifted; Bella became the bride, and she was looking into a mirror. Everything—and everyone—in its reflection was slightly off. Her own face, the objects she held up to it, even the room behind her . . .
“We’re identical twins,” her reflection told her.
“No, we’re not. Your hair is a little darker than mine, and your eyes . . .”
Her reflection’s eyes glinted with something dark and dangerous, as if she knew something or was up to something . . .
“Well, we’re dressed like identical twins,” Mirror Bella insisted.
“No, we’re not. Your dress is off-white. Mine is white. See?”
“Our bouquets are exactly the same.”
“They are not. The flowers are different. You have to pay close attention to the details!”
“So do you.”
“I am!”
Mirror Bella lifted her bouquet. Only it wasn’t a bouquet. It was a hand. Only it wasn’t a hand. It was a claw. It came straight through the mirror . . .
Bella woke with a start to a pair of kittens busily making a cozy nest in her tousled hair and a third kitten kneading her forehead with tiny razor-sharp claws.
“Ouch! Come on, guys!”
Sitting up and turning on the bedside lamp, she sees the furry culprits stretching luxuriously on her warm, vacated pillow like socialites claiming a poolside chaise. A fourth kitten valiantly attempts to scale the vertical quilt folds to join them, and a pair wrestles on the rug below. Another—the striped tabby whose official name is Wednesday, though Bella prefers to call him Wallenda—performs a harrowing, death-defying leap from the dresser to the bed. Only Chance and Spidey remain snuggled in the nest, calmly watching the action.
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Bella gets out of bed and grabs a couple of clean metal pet bowls and cans of cat food from the closet shelf. As soon as she pops the tab on the first one, every member of the feline family, even Spidey, stops in its tracks to look at her, whiskers and ears perked like antennae.
“That’s right, everyone. Breakfast is early today.” She dumps in the food. “Come and get it.”
The kittens race over, skidding across the hardwood floor and jostling each other. Wallenda dive-bombs the bowl and emerges covered in pinkish-brown pâté.
Bella makes her way to the shower, where she lingers to let the steamy water soothe away the weary ache along with last night’s tension and sheer exhaustion. She fell into bed just a short couple of hours ago, much too tired to dwell on the day’s troubling events.
Now she’s almost relieved that she hadn’t connected with Luther after all. As a detective, he’s all about the concrete evidence, and she has nothing.
Well, she does have the note. But what does it prove, other than that someone would prefer the wedding not take place?
An anonymous note doesn’t amount to a threat, and it certainly doesn’t indicate imminent danger.
Yes, that’s what Luther will say when she shows it to him.
For now, she can’t let it distract her from the many tasks at hand. After last night, she wants everything to go smoothly.
Despite the blips, a great time was had by all . . .
All but Odelia.
And, of course, the bride.
Masking displeasure is hardly Johneen’s specialty. She glowered until finally excusing herself to go upstairs shortly after dinner. Parker reluctantly but dutifully joined her, even though the party was in full swing.
The others stayed until midnight, talking, laughing, drinking. They’ll undoubtedly snooze away the morning, unlike Bella, who was up even later on cleanup duty.
Odelia should have been right there with her but said she wasn’t feeling well and left while the guests were eating dinner.
“I hate to do this to you, Bella, but I’m afraid I’ll be useless tomorrow if I don’t rest tonight.”
Bella assured her that she could handle it on her own, though she wasn’t convinced Odelia’s ailment was purely physical. She suspected her friend just couldn’t stomach the sight of Calla with Blue Slayton.
Ordinarily, Bella would have attempted to discuss it with her, but she had her hands full with the party, and she was still rattled by the Judy Garland song that shouldn’t have been played.
By the time she ran inside to turn it off, it had ended. And when she checked her iPod, “Poor Little Rich Girl” wasn’t even on the playlist.
How, then, had it made its way into the rotation?
She’d never heard the song in her life, but it was stuck in her head last night. Right before she headed up the stairs, she returned to the study to look up the lyrics.
Reading through them on the screen, she didn’t find them particularly menacing. Earlier, though, with Odelia’s comment fresh in her head, she was certain Spirit was sending Johneen a message.
That, too, seems ridiculous now.
While she was at the computer, against her own better judgment, she decided to revisit her earlier investigation into Johneen’s background. She typed the first few letters, hit enter when the remembered search popped up, and glanced over the list of results. Nothing of note jumped out at her, and fatigue and the late hour swiftly got the better of her. She closed the screen and went to bed, not even sure exactly what she’d been looking for. A recent brush with danger, maybe? A restraining order against an old boyfriend? Some kind of—
Without warning, Bella’s hot shower goes bone-chilling. She jumps out from under the spray, glad she’s no longer covered in suds.
As she hurriedly wraps herself in a towel, shivering, she notes that this hasn’t happened in weeks.
Is it, too, a message from Spirit?
If so, it’s that she’d better get moving, because she has a million things to do.
Back in her room, she gazes at herself in the mirror, wondering how she’s going to make herself presentable. Her eyes are bloodshot and deeply underscored with exhaustion, well beyond remedy by simple eye drops and drugstore concealer.
You just have to get through the next . . . not even twenty-four hours, she reminds herself. And then . . .
And then Johneen and Parker will be off on their honeymoon and life will be back to normal around here.
Normal, with Maleficent in their midst?
Her mother-in-law had stayed tucked away throughout the evening. As Odelia excused herself to head home, she wondered aloud if she should knock to make sure Millicent was all right.
“Please don’t,” Bella told her. “Trust me, she’s the first to let someone—everyone—know when she isn’t all right.”
Judging by the look on Odelia’s face, the words came out sounding more callous than she’d intended, or even than she was feeling. But it wasn’t the right moment to explain that when it comes to protecting Max, she takes no chances.
Of course Millicent loves him, just as she loved her son. But Sam, as an adult, was able to grasp that his mother saw Bella as a third wheel. He was usually adept at deflecting Millicent’s manipulation, but not always.
Max, as an impressionable little boy, could easily be blindsided by his strong-willed grandmother.
Bella might very well be overreacting to her visit, but she’s pretty sure she didn’t miss a hint of suspicious behavior yesterday, and she can’t expect Millicent to stay hidden away all day today.
At some point this morning, she’s going to have to squeeze in at least a brief conversation. Or confrontation, if it comes down to that. All the more reason to get busy on the day’s tasks while she has the quiet house all to herself.
But when she heads downstairs, she sees light spilling from the back of the house and hears voices in the breakfast room.
Stepping across the threshold, she finds . . .
Even Valentino’s ghost wouldn’t be as shocking as the sight that greets her.
She must be hallucinating in the blinding glare of overhead light. She squeezes her eyes tightly shut.
But when she opens them again, there they are: Millicent and Johneen, companionably sipping tea at a round café table.
Johneen appears wan and plain, free of makeup and wearing glasses. Her long hair falls in straggly wisps over the appliquéd bodice of her white cotton nightgown.
Millicent is wearing eye pencil, rouge, and lipstick. She’s fully clothed and accessorized: gold jewelry and a tweed blazer over a creamy silk blouse and brown slacks. Maybe, Bella thinks hopefully, she’s donned a traveling outfit to catch an early flight home.
Catching sight of her, the two women curtail their conversation so abruptly that Bella’s certain they were discussing her, or something they didn’t want her to overhear.
“Good morning, Isabella,” her mother-in-law says as Johneen pushes back her chair.
“Good morning. What are you doing . . . up?” Bella was about to say here instead, but Johneen, after all, is staying at the guesthouse.
“I’ve had terrible insomnia,” Johneen announces, getting to her feet. “I finally decided to come down to make some chamomile tea. I’m hoping it’ll put me back to sleep. I’d like to get at least eight hours. Be sure to keep the house quiet.”
Bella murmurs that she’ll certainly try, then watches the bride-to-be disappear in a billow of white cotton, leaving her chair pushed out and her used mug on the table.
As her footsteps retreat up the stairs, Bella looks over at Millicent. “Did you . . . um . . . are you leaving town?”
“Leaving? I just got here.”
“No, I know, but . . . you’re already up and dressed.”
“I’ve always been an early riser. I don’t believe in lying around the house in a slovenly way.”
Is it Bella’s imagination, or is that a personal dig? Unfair, considering she’s up, shower
ed, and dressed, even if she is just wearing an old flannel shirt and yesterday’s tattered jeans with threadbare knees. She may not have on makeup, but her hair is clean and brushed, held back in a plastic banana clip.
“I was just wondering how you happened to be here at this hour, that’s all,” Bella tells her mother-in-law, trying to give her the benefit of the doubt.
“Your friend invited me in.”
“My friend?”
“Miss Maynard.”
Ah, Miss Maynard. Her friend. Okay.
“How did she happen to—”
“I was about to make myself a cup of tea in your neighbor’s kitchen across the way when I glanced out the window and saw a light on here. Someone was in the kitchen, and I assumed it must be you, so I came across and knocked.”
“And Johneen let you in.” Bella nods, piecing it together—sort of. She still can’t seem to wrap her head around the odd little Johneen/Maleficent wee-hour coffee klatch.
“The poor thing needed someone to talk to. She’s getting married today,” Millicent adds, as if that might be news to Bella.
“Yes, I know.”
“It sounds like she’s estranged from her own mother, so I gave her some advice.”
“About the wedding?”
“Among other things. She’s had a difficult time.”
“With what?”
“With . . . relationships. Some people do.”
“What do you mean by that?” Bella asks, wondering if Johneen confided something relevant.
But Millicent suddenly seems fascinated by the sodden tea bag’s paper tag dangling over the edge of her mug. She peers at it, folds it, unfolds it, and tears it off the string.
“Millicent? Did Johneen—”
“I don’t feel comfortable discussing this.”
No, of course not. Nor is Bella comfortable kicking off a long day with this little tête-à-tête. They’re here, so she might as well be direct.
“What exactly brought you here, Millicent?”
“Isabella, please do call me Mother.”
Something Buried, Something Blue Page 12
